


Titanomachy

by chatnchew



Category: Disney - All Media Types, The Incredibles (2004)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Death, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mid-Canon, Minor Character Death, Not Beta Read, Operation Kronos, Pre-Canon, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-04-04 23:25:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14031144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chatnchew/pseuds/chatnchew
Summary: Syndrome killed the Supers. This is how he lured them. This is how they died.





	1. Psycwave

**Author's Note:**

> This is still a work in progress! Hopefully I'll get around to writing about all of the supers. This also might be a bit out of order in terms of their deaths as I work through them, and edits will likely happen over time. Even in it's incomplete state, I wanted to put this jumble of a work out there. I hope in spite of it's faults, it's enjoyable. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

It had been a long time since she had received any sort of premonition. 

Clara Keen had returned to work as a psychologist– her practice with Albert Goebel, the former and once-famous Everseer, had been doing well since the end of the Era of the Super (as Dr. Goebel was keen on terming it, being melodramatic as always). Folks were often depressed, or worried, or neurotic, or what _ ever _ because of it. Either they felt impotent, or they felt unsafe. 

Most of the time it was frustrating work, as it had been before she quit. Being gifted with premonitions did not make the job easy. The lives of her patients were always so clear to her, and their consistent blindness to their pitfalls had been enough to make her go gray. Only at the temples, but  _still_. 

Clara’s job was predictable. That was the root of her anger. It was not prone to delivering her any insights, any  _ excitement. _

It was understandable, then, that she stopped her patient mid-sentence after receiving her vision. The image of an exotic island had come to her: a place teeming with foliage but devoid of animals, and possessed by some strange, malicious, strong power. It was a land under some sort of unnatural affliction. It was the sort of vision that had come to her only a few times before– potent with fear. Clara was left feeling like a ghost. Wide-eyed, mumbling, haunting.

In her mailbox that evening there was something  _ peculiar. _

A manila envelope with unusual heft. It stared back at her from where it lie on her mod kitchen counter, teeming with promise. Clara pressed her trimmed nails against her bottom lip. Paranoia was buzzing at the base of her skull. 

And yet.  _ And yet. _

The tablet freaked her out, plain and simple. She had seen technology as advanced as it before, sure. But the second its scanner began taking in the dimensions of her face and kitchen she couldn’t help but let out a scream (and manage to fall over in the process).

A voice had her back on her feet. Clara stared down at the smooth screen with more critical eyes, and watched and listened and absorbed the message of Mirage. 

She considered the business card for several days (mostly because cleaning up after the tablet’s self destruction had eaten up most of her time). But in the end she found herself dialing the number, and accepting the offer she had been given. 

A vacation from vexation. A return to the exciting life of a hero. Clara was glad that her old costume was still in good shape. It felt so good to slip gloves back over her fingers, to don the costume, emblazoned with the atom, that made her feel  _ herself _ again.  _ Powerful _ again!

When the jet sent for Clara arrived at the abandoned airfield set as the rendezvous point, a piece of her fear returned. There was the buzz at the base of her skull again. She ignored it– and then completely forgot about it when the jet offered her a mimosa. 

Clara (”Psycwave, Psycwave!” she was insisting at that point) was thoroughly buzzed by the time she boarded her second jet. Mirage was there, smiling. She was more sleek, more mysterious in person– was it alcohol or the woman herself that left Clara in the dark about her thoughts and future?

“–The Omnidroid is an incredibly sophisticated machine that we have, unfortunately… Lost control of. We’ve managed to safely evacuate the island–”

“ **_Island?_** ” The comfortable veil that had enveloped Clara’s mind was parted by the hand of terror. Mirage nodded and continued without regards to her stunned expression. 

“We have the location of the droid pinned down, and will shortly deploy you via airdrop. The Omnidroid is a notable investment of both time and funds, so we would appreciate it if you could… Refrain from major damage.” Only after Clara nodded did Mirage cease her comfortable, expectant stare. 

The airdrop was terrifying. She felt so small and defenseless huddled like a fetus in that capsule. The ground trembled after the impact, and reluctantly she lifted her slender form out, and stepped foot into the Nomanisan jungle. 

_ Oh God. _

This was it. The vision from before lined up perfectly with the vision in front of her. Clara herself trembled. Danger, fear, unknown, something  _ something was coming_– 

She did not have to wander. The droid had no cloaking mechanism; it was not smart enough to hide. But it did see, and its blazing red eye had locked on to her. Clara Keen. Psycwave. The enemy.

Clara barely detected the sound of wheels crushing vegetation before it was upon her. She screamed and, without thinking, threw up a wave of her mental energy. The droid flinched– the wave wasn’t powerful enough, was it, with her mind as addled by alcohol as it was?  _ Oh, God, oh Christ– _

She ran. It followed, wheels ceaseless in their motion. There were no animal cries in the distance. Only the sound of her footfalls on jungle grass, the crash of tress in the path of the Omnidroid, and the ever-present sensation that her horrible vision had become reality. 

When its clawed hand pinched her waist she knew it was over. But her screaming did not stop, her thrashing did not halt, her–

  


Mirage grimaced at the image presented to her on the video screen. Psycwave’s entire body went limp after the Omnidroid shattered her spine. Beside her, however, Syndrome remained immobile. She told herself that the first trial was what culled his sense of disgust. 

“Who would you suggest we bring in next?” he asked, eyes still trained on the video feed. Mirage was glad to direct her attention to her clipboard. 

“Everseer,” she said. She cleared her throat somewhat. “…Her partner, at their psychologist practice. It would be easier to feed the press a story that they went missing together– perhaps after foolishly eloping.” Syndrome nodded sagely as he at last directed his gaze elsewhere in thought.

  
“Good.” He was smiling. He was _satisfied_. “We already have info on his whereabouts. No need to spy on him anymore. Go ahead and send him the package. We should proceed  as soon as we can.”


	2. Universal Man

There was no secret identity for Universal Man to sink away into after the operations of supers were declared illegal. The National Supers Agency was well of it, too, and had crafted an alternative life for him. He became a government weapon, to be deployed for only the most covert of operations– and never in the costume he had come to wear as second skin. 

The life they provided for him was a controlled one given the veneer of freedom. He was not so daft as to not be aware of it.  _ Every single one _ of his activities was monitored– if not by a person, then by a machine. His apartment was the only place of solace, but even that was well-checked. Universal Man had every right to suspect his lines were tapped (and they were, along with his mail being routinely checked; only his fax line was safe). 

It was, safe to say, then, a surprise to find a strange folder in his mail one day. Strange not because of its appearance (like any old boring thing passed around offices), but because of its weight. It had been years since he had received any sort of package. 

Upon opening it he was quick to see why. 

Universal Man was unsure as to how any organization outside of the government had access to such advanced technology– in his hands he bore a tablet, and said tablet had been prompt to  _ scan  _ both him and his meager apartment. His attention had already been grabbed by the time Mirage’s message began to play. 

There was no question as to whether he would be accepting the offer she granted him. He did not dare call the number. He sent a fax, and to his pleasure was promptly answered. 

The NSA wasn’t even aware that he had left until it was too late. A manta ray-shaped jet had arrived and spirited him away in less than a day’s time. His various rendezvous planes were never detected– and on the last stretch he was debriefed by the alluring Mirage. 

Universal Man arrived on Nomanisan Island to  _ great _ fanfare. The women (women? he wasn’t complaining), the applause, the  _ praise _ he had been so used to receiving previously were all suddenly back in his life. He was being cheered on for a deed he had of yet to accomplish– as, in the morning, he was slated to deactivate a rogue robot. It had been terrorizing the north side of the island, and taking care of it was of the utmost importance.

Finding the damn thing was easy; it was not at all quiet, and was notably awkward being in the jungle as it was. It was square and out of place and with power it didn’t know how to wield. Were Universal Man the philosophical type, he would have related.

But he wasn’t and brute force was all that was on his mind. He slammed straight into the Omnidroid’s side, forcing his density to a low point, denting it’s metal side– and he did not at all expect to be  _ pinned in place  _ against it. 

 

Syndrome had to avert his gaze from his screen as the fight turned exceptionally  **_bloody_ ** . Pieces of Universal Man hit the camera and terminated the sight for him. Mirage had turned away some time ago and had not looked over her shoulder since. She was spared the gore.

“Ugh,” Syndrome muttered. “Mirage, hon, make a note– and star it or something, because it’s important. Let’s  _ not _ have subsequent models… Do that. That whole rip and tear thing.” 


	3. Everseer

Albert Goebel was not entirely upset about the wave of anti-super rulings that effectively ended his vigilante career. The luster of such a life had began to fade in the later years. Addendum (he should be specific): the luster of such a life began to fade after the repeated infractions from Gazerbeam hurt the cohesion of the Phantasmics. Having to keep a tight grip on his position of ruler was not how Albert wished to spend a majority of his time as a hero. Even after he vacated the group’s list of members, the Phantasmics never quite operated the same. The work had become frustrating. 

That, and Albert was more than happy to never have to step foot in the germ-infested lair of some unhygienic villain ever again. Let the police deal with the obscenities of ne’er-do-wells. It was certainly about time they did. 

Falling back into his psychiatric practice with Ms. Clara Keen was easy. She was one of the few with whom he always found collaboration to be easy, even when she was at her most strung out. Perhaps that was due to the fact that her mind, that of another psychokinetic, was easy to fall into sync with. They had been good at combating crime; it only followed they were good at helping the laypeople with their mental maladies. 

One day, Clara would go missing. 

Albert had predicted it months in advance. The day that she left work early pale as a sheet and barely able to scrounge up an excuse for her absence was no surprise to him. She did not return the next day. Or the day after. Albert had predicted that as well. Such events occurred. 

When he received a parcel in his mailbox unlike any other, Albert learned why Clara had vanished. 

Unbeknownst to him, however, she had been lured away from Metroville with the promise of becoming Psychwave once again. Albert was fed different bait. His services were being requested by a mysterious, paranoid patron. He would be treated to polished paradise free of microbes; he would be compensated handsomely. He had all the reason in the world to go– after all, he assumed, Clara was already there. 

“Dr. Goebel.” Mirage was the first human face Albert saw on Nomansian, but she was not the first person he had been aware of. The pensive hum surrounding the island was comparable to that of any town or city. Albert had to wonder: exactly how many people were under this millionaire’s employ? It was hard to pick out any individual thoughts; what they were all hired to be doing was a mystery. “We are honored to have such a renown figure such as yourself in our company.” 

The doctor was escorted to a meeting room. It was strikingly modern, with its high ceiling and glossy table. Albert’s heightened sight could not detect any sign of microbial life– which was beyond impressive. Even his own home was not so spotless. Still, compulsion kept him glued to his seat. Even as a half hour passed. Even as two hours passed. 

The sound of wheels interrupted his thoughts. 

Albert sat up straighter and strained his ears. Among his many gifts was not a sharp hearing sense, but he was certain the sound of some mechanical  _ thing  _ moving was not of his imagination. And it was moving closer.

Perhaps it was obvious that this was the layer of a supervillain, Albert mused. The beautiful assistant, the private island, the veiled request. He only wished his premonition had informed him better. But… Even if it had, he would have still come. For Clara. 

 

“Jesus, what was that?” Syndrome pressed fingers to both of his temples to roll out the sudden sharp pain in his head. Upon opening his eyes (they’d shut immediately) he saw Mirage nursing her own pain. 

“My guess would be it was our most recent guest,” she supplied. Syndrome grimaced further. 

“Everseer?  _ Really?  _ I knew he was a powerful psychic, but that was  _ stupid _ powerful. I feel like I’m gonna have a headache for a  _ week _ .” He paused, and through his pain he was granted another thought. 

“I’m kinda regretting setting the Omnidroid on him. Maybe we could have used him on some other project.” Mirage had nothing to say in reply; her expression read clearly, however.  _ No use crying over spilled milk _ . 


	4. Macroburst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait on an update, folks! The new movie totally got me hyped to continue with this. Hopefully I can make good on the promise to finish it. Hope you enjoy this new chapter!

Retirement coming so early, and so unwanted, had been hard for Alexis Hummel. They had just embarked on a solo career. Independence from Everseer had been freeing and _rewarding_. Sure, they had still been on the Phantasmics’ roster, but to be seen as a full-fledged member of the team had been a dream come true. The people of Municberg adored them; they still had the plucky air of youth from their sidekick days to carry them forward in the realm of public opinion. And their powers were nothing to shirk at, either. All in all, things had been going well. Super, even.

And then the ban happened.

It wasn’t until years into the ban, well after they had finished college and found a job in the private sector, that Alexis figured that it may have been for the better. Without super work to focus on, their grades had picked up. Their social life had improved. They had an idea of what they wanted to do outside of being a super. Helping people was a must, of course, but there were many ways to be a hero.

Researching plane crashes was a way to do that. The Stratogale incident had scarred most everyone in the super-heroing business, and Alexis had been no exception. Though it had been a freak occurrence, working to make sure wrecks like that one never happened again was fulfilling in a way Alexis had never expected it to be. It was also a lot of desk work, meaning their hair never got tousled while on the job. It was a win-win scenario, really.

That made the package they received all the more puzzling.

At first Alexis thought it was a message from Everseer. He hadn’t sent his old protegé any letters for quite some time… But when the tablet screen flickered on and the woman who called herself Mirage appeared on screen, Alexis’ interest was piqued. They supposed that it wasn’t _entirely_ illegal to use their powers in the private sector. Secluded away on some island. Just to help test out some robotics hardware…

The more and more Alexis thought about the venture, the more and more appeal it held. And so they suited up and became Macroburst for the first time in over a decade. The suit felt foreign; like a second skin that had been shed long ago. But something young in Alexis compelled them to go through with the mission.

“Macroburst.” Mirage greeted Alexis aboard to the private jet set to transport them to said mission. Her voice was laden with a confidence in her voice that surprised Alexis. Usually upon seeing them people began to struggle to figure out what they were looking at. Mirage took their androgyny in stride. Macroburst shook her hand with a genuine smile on their face. They were feeling better about the assignment by the minute.

The robot they wanted to put to the test against Macroburst was the least aerodynamic looking thing they had ever seen. It was awkward– square, squatting on two wheels, and sporting arms with little reach and crude hands. An Omnidroid, they called it. Apparently it had gone rogue, in the interim between their being approached with the mission and their acceptance of it, and needed to be stopped.

Nomanisan Island was quite a distance out from the mainland. Macroburst hadn’t thought to ask where it was; after being airdropped from the jet, they could figure it was somewhere tropical just by the heat in the currents. They glided down toward a patch of jungle nearest to where the Omnidroid had last been seen.

It didn’t take long before Macroburst knew where it was. It was cacophonous, rumbling through the foliage like a hulking beast. They were up in the air again, clearing the trees– and then the same currents that had lifted them up were crushing the Omnidroid, suffocating it in a vortex of humid air. The metal surface buckled and warped slowly at first… And then with an ear-splitting screech folded entirely.  


 

“Wow.” Syndrome looked up from his screen with a broad, toothy grin on his face. Mirage mirrored back a slender smile. There was little to criticize, save how thorough Macroburst was. It would have been nice to salvage for old parts. Syndrome clasped his hands together and drummed his fingers together in giddy fascination.

“Bring Macroburst back _for sure_ ,” he said. “I always thought they were cool, but that was _badass_!” He paused to giggle– and as the laughter continued, it descended into something much darker.

“If we can make an alloy that even they can’t crush… Then it’ll be good enough to fight _him_.” Mirage raised an eyebrow as she caressed Syndrome’s shoulder.

“As you wish,” was her simple reply.

  


And so Macroburst was invited back. Against their better wishes, they accepted. They had spent enough time as a hero to know that things were… Off. Why bring in a super with the power to control wind to test a robot, a robot that had “suddenly” gone rogue, that was the least aerodynamic hunk of machinery on the planet?

But the money was good. Better than anything they had ever dreamed of making, even as a super.

“Things will be a bit more routine this time around.” Macroburst glanced up at Mirage, who was smiling almost apologetically. Macroburst managed a smile of their own. Perhaps things were alright. Perhaps they had just fudged the details to give them a chance to play hero again… Rich people were eccentric like that.

Alexis glided down to Nomanisan at their leisure that time. They forgot how nice it was, to feel lighter than air, to take pleasure in the fancy of flight. What a gift it was, to have powers! To be super! Laughter enveloped them the same as the tropical currents. They skimmed across the jungle canopy frivolously. Why hurry? What could possibly–

A giggle caught uncomfortably in their throat as they were snatched out of the air. A crude, clawed hand was gripped around Macroburst’s waist. They turned sharply. There was the Omnidroid; its dead metal eye started back.

They raised a weak hand as the air was being squeezed out of them. The surrounding winds gripped the Omnidroid, but as they constricted… Nothing gave way. Their breathing quickened. Their eyes went wide. They squeezed, they constricted, they flailed their fingers wildly, reaching desperately toward the sky, gasping, gaping–

  
  
“Asphyxiation!” Syndrome turned to Mirage with a bemused expression. She couldn’t help but smile back. His giddiness was contagious, even in spite of the grim events.. “That’s ironic. Like, Greek play ironic! Man am I _glad_ we pulled off those improvements. That was gold!”


	5. The Phylange

Ronen Kneller retired bitter.

The public had never come to appreciate the Phylange much when he was around. As a solo act he was mocked by his peers, as a member of the Thrilling Three he was overshadowed and micro-managed by Gazerbeam, and as a Super whose power was rooted in his voice he was never much adored by the public. And why would he be, when there were acts like Frozone or Dyna Guy or Mr. Incredible on the scene?

That damn Mr. Incredible… If there was one good thing to come out of all the lawsuits and eventual ban on superheroes, it was the fact that it all started with him. Ronen at least had schadenfreude to enjoy at the end of the day.

There was one other saving grace of the unfortunate situation that was his forced retirement, even if Ronen was not consciously aware of it: his career in opera became his main focus. And it became _serious_. It was not as if he was doing poorly before. Powers aside, he was adept at projection and had the lungs and vocal chords necessary to carry even the most verbose line of italian operatics. But without his ego stuck to his floundering Super career, he was able to focus all his drive on the stage.

Things has been going well when Ronen received a rather hefty package. It had just appeared in his dressing room; no one claimed to had delivered it when he asked around about it. As much as he loved fan mail (having an ego as large as his meant he needed flattery to operate) he was always cautious with it. Sometimes people got… Over-zealous. People of the villainous streak, typically. The NSA had made damn certain no criminal knew the secret identities of those under its protection, but one could never be too wary.

To his surprise, late at his home after a sold-out show, it was a business offer he had been sent. A business offer that tickled his pride like no fan letter ever could.

And that was how he ended up on a private jet sailing over the expanse of the Pacific being debriefed by a woman with hair so silver he would have guessed she too was a Super. She was going on about the situation he’d been called upon to handle– a situation he was, apparently, specifically equipped for.

 

“The Omnidroid is made of an alloy that has been… Difficult to breach by our own efforts,” Mirage said, thumbing bashfully at her smile. “My employer decided that your unique powerset might be able to help us solve our problem.”

“Well, your employer was right,” Phylange replied with undo, and clearly manufactured, bravado. “There hasn’t been anything I wasn’t able to stop with my voice yet!” That was a lie– but neither Mirage nor whoever she worked for needed to know that. Mirage continued to beam at him, displaying what read as nothing less than satisfaction and belief in what he’d said.

“It’s good to have you working with us, Phylange,” she replied.

  


Contrary to common belief, the life of a superhero didn’t always necessitate travel. Or perhaps it hadn’t in Ronen’s case. He had never left the United States for his superhero work (opera houses in Europe were familiar to him, though), and _certainly_ he had never stepped foot in a jungle. The tepid tropical air and high-reaching canopy of Nomanisan were rather… Foreboding.

His trek through the jungle was long and slow. Every now and then he’d pause to listen for any signs of the Omnidroid… And was met back with silence. No sounds of animals, even.

And then there was the sound of something moving; something big, unwieldy, and metal. Phylange turned heel swiftly. It was behind him. He strained his ears– if he could determine how far away it was now, he could know exactly just how far to project his voice to render it immobile.

Seconds passed. The droid marched. The Phylange closed his eyes.

There.

A shout ripped through the foliage and collided with the automaton. It fell back and hit the ground with a dull _THUD_. The grin that spread across the Phylange’s face would have been contagious if anyone else was standing around to witness it. The inflated sense of surprise was a bit less infectious.

He sauntered over to where the Omindroid was lying immobile. A singular red eye, smack in its center, was scanning its surroundings frantically. From where it lie, though, the only thing it was getting a look at was the sky above. The Phylange snickered. He wondered what had been so difficult in keeping the thing under control. He gave its side a swift kick and his laughter grew.

“What a hunk of junk! To think they had to call me in to–”

  


Front and center on their monitoring screen was a pale-faced Phylange gripping at one of the claw-like feet of the Omindroid v.X2. Somehow it was more grim than the sight of Macroburst just months before; Mirage’s expression was pinched with notable discomfort. Syndrome had a hand covering his mouth, in part because he was pensive and in part because the bulging eyes, the unnaturally tightened muscle, and protruding tongue of the fallen Phylange were starting to get to even him.

“Y’know I had thought about _maybe_ keeping his costume, if it was in-tact, you know,” he started. Mirage gave him a look and he nodded.

“Yeah I think I’m– I’m gonna pass on it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who waited on this chapter! I do hope I can continue working on this fic in the near future. Your continued support has definitely inspired me to keep working on it!


	6. Stormicide

Ilma Van Der Aart had profited well, fiscally, from the death of her uncle. The money he bequeathed to her in his will did little to absolve her from the emotional pain– she had not cared for him in his twilight hours for the sake of a large payout. But it did make the coming days of mourning a bit easier. 

She did not have to worry about the funeral costs (the NSA would have covered them, but she insisted that they had done enough for her), and while her employers were more than understanding about her pausing her work, it was more than nice to not have to worry about the cost of living while she grieved. Ilma did not let dust cover her chemistry notebooks, as working through the science of her projects occasionally provided some levity, but for most of her time… She stagnated.

Eventually her grief gave way to boredom. She returned to work, but not even the wonder of chemistry did not provide alleviation from her malaise. There was an ever-present itch at the tips of her fingers. It was the sort of troublesome worry that her fellow supers had admitted to being haunted by. 

She had been seeing less and less of them as time had gone on. Ilma had chalked it up to nothing more than life. They all had other friends, other responsibilities, other people that filled their lives. But still sometimes she missed her coffee meet-ups with the likes of Vectress, Apogee, _Psycwave_ … 

Ilma had not seen the papers. She had missed the  quick-to-vanish buzz about their disappearances, the articles written about their absences. For the first time in months, she bothered to check her mail. 

There was a manila envelope inside her mail box.

At first Ilma merely thought it was from her job. The tablet inside was tech she was familiar with seeing only because of her past life and because of her scientific interests. The moment the thing turned on, however, was the moment she realized there was nothing quite like it out in the world. Her experiences be damned. 

The message that played was peculiar. The woman, Mirage, knew so much. It was too specific– the use of her hero identity, the description of her current state… It was all so  _ surreal _ . The tablet self-destructing certainly didn’t help (luckily for her clearing the smoke out was no problem, and her NSA issue sprinklers weren’t triggered) the oddity of the situation. 

Still, she found herself considering the number on the card that had been printed. If going back to her chemistry work had eased a bit of her pain, then perhaps… 

It had been a long time since she’d donned her costume. But Ilma– or was she Stormicide again, for now at least? –found it fit her still, after fifteen years. She felt a sense of pride, excitement, with the wind blowing through her hair as she waited for her jet to arrive in an empty moor. 

The  _ excitement  _ was more prevalent when, on her second jet, the sight of Nomanisan Island came into spectacular view.  

Once on the island the wonders did not cease. She wondered briefly if the base there was anything like the island where the Phantasmics had held their operations; there was only so much Psycwave had been willing to reveal to her. At first she had chalked it up to elitism, but now she understood. Seeing a waterfall part to reveal an elevator was something that had to be  _ witnessed  _ to fully appreciate. 

And then she was meeting with Mirage, still sitting in that plush little compartment heading up the waterfall tower. 

“Stormicide,” she greeted, sounding as mysterious in person as she did on-screen. Stormicide found the joy that came with being called her hero title outweighed her suspicions. “We’re honored to have you a part of our team, even if only for the time being.” 

_ Honored _ . As one weak to criticism, it was only natural that Stormicide was also weak to praise. “Well, ah– It’s an honor to be called upon, Mirage. Really. I’m glad I’m still remembered, given my powers are…”

“Gaseous absorption and emission?” Mirage finished. She smiled. “Your skill set is exactly what we need for this occasion. You were our first pick.” 

Conversation only continued from there. The topics varied from fashion to science to powers once more, the economy, even a little politics ( _ what a long ride this is _ , Ilma thought), and for once she found herself considering what it was she had actually felt missing from her life. 

There was not much time to fully dwell on it. Mirage was feeding her directions to a boardroom, where she would be fully briefed on her mission. Riding the high of joy and anticipation Stormicide followed her directions without much thought. 

The boardroom, which was spacious and rather fancy, was empty when she arrived. Perhaps she was early? She hadn’t even payed attention to the time she was supposed to arrive– 

When the back wall of the boardroom was torn away Ilma realized that something was amiss. Standing against a backdrop of jungle was a robot: a squat, sable thing crouching on three legs. A head with one sharp red eye was quick to lock on to her. 

Stormicide was quicker. Without thinking, she absorbed as much of the air around her as she could and leaped onto the long wooden table stretching across the boardroom. It was her take off runway. A segmented robotic arm thrust its clawed hand at her– and missed as she spiraled into the air. 

Somewhere over the jungle she began to descend as the vapors left her body. She landed on the grassy floor gracefully, a skill that had developed after several crashes in her youth. Once on the ground she began to consider her next move. What around her could she use as a weapon…?

The sound of tree trunks giving way tore Stormicide away from her thoughts. Was it already that close? The steady increasing of sound told her all she needed to know. It moved fast, always– and so she would have to try and be faster. 

Her instincts told her one thing: if there was nothing  _ around _ her to use, then something from  _ inside _ would do just as well. Outstretched hands faced the robot as it approached, and even if though it wasn’t quite in her vision yet, she at least had a sense of where it was. And she began to  _ pull _ ,  _ pull _ ,  _ pull _ from the air inside of it

Whatever metal that thing was made of was dense; the noise it made when it warped was loud and deep and unlike anything Stormicide had heard before. But it was a sign that it was working. The robot would implode and the threat would be elimina–

 

By that point Mirage was used to the violence. Seeing Stormicide impaled by the Omnidroid’s clawed hand made her wince, not turn away. Her gaze only drifted to Syndrome beside her because she was about to speak. “We’re starting to run out of candidates.” Syndrome shrugged.

“We’re starting to run out of improvements to make to the Omnidroid,” was his delighted response. “This was a good trial. Still more kinks that need to be worked out, buuut…” He shrugged again, chuckling under his breath.

“ _Checking one more name_ **_off the list_ ** doesn’t hurt either.”


End file.
